


Darknight: A Prologue

by Melanthios



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Forgotten Realms
Genre: Memory-to-Present-day transition, My cat - Freeform, Other, Pre-Realisation Transman, Reminiscing, Ritual Sex Worship, Tiefling Character, Transgender themes, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 06:05:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14490459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanthios/pseuds/Melanthios
Summary: This is a little prologue to the D&D game I'm going to be in. Thought I'd toss it up here because I'm really proud of it, especially because short stories aren't usually my thing.





	Darknight: A Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lycaenion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lycaenion/gifts).



> Before you read: I am a transman writing from my own life experiences with how I view and think of my gender transition so don't come up in here starting shit about how I'm writing trans people wrong and can't possibly know. I do know. I am trans. There's a back button.

On the longest night of the year, it was still warm enough to lay outside on a stone altar, wearing only perfume, paint, and glitter. It was a good thing, too, because the longest night of the year was the preferable night for offering virginity to Himself.

Which is exactly what was happening. The bonds were non-existent, only those of faith and devotion held the offering down. And the stone was hard, but carved and polished smooth enough, contoured to a body with spells and long years of use. The coolness of it would be needed.

The offering happened to be uncomfortable for different reasons, but they were reasons even she did not understand, not now. She was waiting, listening to the chanting of her mothers, and her grandmothers, as they stood at the eight points of the summoning circle. The ninth, positioned so that anyone standing there was directly between her thighs, was left empty for a reason.

The air ripped open with the heat of nine ovens, and the offering watched as the one offered to stepped through. She had met him before, had spoken to him, but tonight was a special night, and she observed the solemnity of it.

He seemed a little surprised to see her, though she knew it wasn’t because she was sitting up. He liked sitting up, or standing, so he could get a look at you first. The assumption that he was thrust and done was, frankly, a little insulting, and very tiresome. They took care to be neither, not to him.

‘I am a virgin,’ she said, the ritual words trembling in her mouth.

‘So you are,’ he said, with the faintest smile.

‘My elders have called you here so that I may offer purity for you to despoil.’

‘Oh, little one,’ he said, smile curling wry as he reached out a hand with long black points of nails, gently caressing her face. ‘You were never so pure as some.’

Her courage faltered, but she held her tongue, unsure.

‘But you are a virgin,’ he said, kissing her forehead with gentleness that most did not expect of him. ‘And you are offered in good faith—very good faith,’ he added, more to the surrounding coven than to her. But she was part of this good faith, and it warmed her, the approval. ‘And I appreciate the adherence to the laws.’

She watched him speak, so close to her she could see his face, could smell the blood and see a little of the bloodied cuts upon his skin. He hurt so. Her heart went out to him, and she turned and gently put her hand over his larger one, kissing at the soft and lordly skin of it, that was scented of smoke and magic. She wondered if he, too, bathed especial for this night, or if he was always this way. She wondered if any salve could soothe him.

‘You wonder a lot of things,’ he said, not disapprovingly, and smirked enough to make her hips flush and pulse all at once, when a breath before they had been dormant with nerves. ‘Let me see if I can stop you for a while,’ he teased, and black lips sealed over hers, silken and soft as shadows, a tongue as warm and smooth as he claimed her mouth, his long hands sliding to cup her face, then her throat, then her shoulders.

Asmodeus loved Darknight. There was always, and had been for the better part of thirteen human generations, been something to look forward to in Sleepy Hollow—but Darknight was his favourite. Darknight brought him _this_. It wasn’t that there weren’t mortals aplenty worshipping him; but so many of them were _whiny_ —they wanted power, or the promise of power at least, and even the lies for that got tiresome and boring after a while. Sleepy Hollow, refreshingly, never _asked_ for anything; they asked for his time, but only enough to have food, and drink, and pleasurable company. They did not plot against him, they did not ask him to plot, they asked his manners and that was so different as to be refreshing.

And every Darknight, for quite a while, there had been a virgin to offer on this table. Tonight, it was Laura’s get again, and Asmodeus well-remembered the first of her get, a tall and burly maiden with a golden laugh and a hearty mane of curls. She had laughed in delight as he had taken her, and growled and _bit his ear_ —not enough to draw blood, but enough to make _him_ laugh in surprise.

And here was the next, who was as tall, but willowy, all legs and nerves, but grown into herself, finally. Her skin fair glowed in the starlight, and her eyes like the glowing mushrooms in deepest woods, faint. And a tail. A tail she kept coiled around one leg, as though ashamed of something—or of it, or merely hiding her heritage. He coaxed it to uncoil, stroked it, saw her shiver and smiled in pleasure at pleasure’s power.

Yet still, she was tense, unhappy. Afraid. She was not relaxed, did not like being naked. Why _ever_ would one of Laura’s get find shame in nudity? ‘You’re distracted,’ he said, though he didn’t frown, and tilted her gaze to him, looking into her eyes. ‘What thought is more powerful than this one?’ Had she a lover? He shifted forms to one that many of the coven preferred—curves of his own, lush and inviting. ‘You prefer a lady to a lord?’ Asmodeus asked, canting her head as she saw this had not brought the relief she was used to seeing. ‘What then? Tell me.’

She didn’t know, she didn’t know, and was afraid of not giving an answer. Asmodeus changed back to his more familiar form. Sometimes it was like this. Ceremony was the enemy of shy disciples. ‘Come, little one,’ he soothed. ‘You know me, I am Asmodeus. You’ve sat on my lap before; that is all this is.’

There, a smile, a giggle. He saw those so seldom, they were pleasant. He drew darkness around them, and felt her relax yet more, and he continued, stroking her skin, the satin hairs scattered over it, the springy curls that protected her sex, her tail, naked and sensitive, purely so at the tip—this, he tasted, and she gave voice to her first sound, a soft and deliciously tender little squeak.

He teased his mouth gently against the skin of her tail, letting it slide from his hand, and winding a tail of his own around it to squeeze, gently, knowing how it felt as she could not help squeezing back. Ah, he’d not had a tail in a while…. He drank of her lips again, and eased her onto his thigh, thinking she would find the position familiar, comfortable, safe.

There was no reason to cause her fear. Fear was bread and wine; but trust, trust was a more exotic delicacy. She was no threat, why should he not allow her trust? Asmodeus kissed her, and kissed her, and she grew braver, and showed her prowess, her practise, her ideas. On her own she climbed closer, straddled both his thighs, moved against him.

Attempted to heal him with her small magics. How dear! It was a drop of water on a wildfire, but the fact that she had _tried_ , even surely knowing this! That deserved reward, for determination as much as the attempt to hide the incantation in a kiss to his throat.

‘And what was that, pet?’ he murmured.

‘You’re hurt, I’m a Healer,’ she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking and doing an admirable job of not stopping her caresses, not showing fear. ‘We heal.’

‘Did you think you could?’

‘It doesn’t matter, I have to try anyway.’

And she’d known to use the proper polarity of spell—on a mortal it would have been a minor curse. Well-taught! He kissed her just at the junction of jawline and ear. ‘Then I shall heal _you_ a little,’ he murmured. He knew where her pain was—he could see it, and knew of it from years of visiting this particular cult of his.

Heavy and striped with angry red, stabbing with needle-pain— _that_ was the price of a bosom that men so coveted to hold; the women who owned same rarely enjoyed it half so much. It took barely as much magic as she had used to try and heal him, for Asmodeus to flatten them. She gasped, and he saw her staring through the darkness, let her see him so she could stare with naked shock at his face, then joy; she _surged_ forward, kissing him with renewed vigour, pressing herself against him like a cat, her tail pulling free of his and wrapping around his cock with surprisingly dexterity—had she _practised that?_ —and _squeezing_ , tugging slightly.

‘ _Oh_ , my lord! _Thank_ you!’

She was _weeping_ ; and well, she might! He had heard of her weeping from the pain before, those times he had come and she had been absent; and she was not the first, nor the only, to suffer beauty. The goddesses of that were truly more sadistic than any castigator of _his_ (he’d taken more than a few notes on _that_ ).

But she was young, and aroused, and excited to try her newness, and did not weep for long.

‘Come now, stop that,’ he chuckled, tapping at her tightly-coiled tail, still wrapped over his cock. ‘I want something a little warmer snug around _that_.’

She loosened her grip immediately, unsure whether to laugh or apologise. She decided, wisely, on neither one, and went about the business of spreading her lower lips and lowering down, one hand steadying him, one hand steadying herself.

As she lowered on, he did what he always did to offerings, and made sure he was the perfect size—perfect to stretch just enough, but not so much that she would hesitate to move. His tail wrapped around her waist, steadying her further. These things had to be done delicately, tender flesh situated in the best place for protection, but not for _use_.

He leaned back on his hands, and enjoyed the view of her face, of her ecstasy, felt her worship pouring into him like blood into a goblet—guileless worship, pure as promised, shining and powerful and _real_. _Gods_ were worshipped like this, _gods._ Not Archfiends, proper _gods_ —worshipped without expectation, without contract, without disgust to overcome.

He was perfect, just as she’d been promised; perfect, perfect, and no mortal could fit her so perfectly as Himself. No man would ever come anywhere near this bliss, this fullness that she could feel in her throat. She was silent with wonder, with awe, hands bracing on his chest.

And then, _something_ warm and perfect began lavishing her with attention slightly above her opening, the delicate and furled part of her that _she_ always used to finish herself, never touching farther down at all, never thinking to. She went still, but _he_ moved—his cockstand inside her, this caress, both of them moved, writhing and unnatural and _delicious_ and her hips began to buck of their own accord, almost, but she did not stop them, and he coaxed her to lean forward against him, one great hand spanned over her back, the other on her thigh, urging her back and forth in a rhythm that he matched with what was inside and around and against and—and—and—she came, and came, and screamed as he did not stop, felt more things filling her as she loosened, as she flushed further, soon feeling a delicate teasing at her other opening, and she knew this was a place of pleasure but she rarely had done much of it herself; but it was wet from their exertions, and flushed, and willing now, and she would have shivered if she could have moved at all, as pleasure sparked over her like a shower of stars at his sliding into her, deep and deeper, curling, rubbing against himself _through her inner wall_.

‘Scream,’ he bade, knowing she needed permission. He pressed his teeth to her throat, and closed his eyes, and savoured her with every other sense—her wail, the scent of her arousal, the gush of warm liquid stuttering over his skin, the pulsing, tightening, spasming pleasure that was cresting again, wracking through her body full force.

When she was done, wrung of every drop, every pulse, everything but panting, he stilled, and held her close, his filling soft and comforting now, rather than insistent pleasure. He soothed, he healed what incidental damage such pleasures always gave mortal bodies, even when they did it to one another. He let her sit on his lap and find comfort there, curled against his chest.

‘You have pleased me,’ he assured her, because mortals needed assuring when the gift was intangible, and even when it wasn’t. ‘A fine sacrifice.’ A kiss to her forehead. ‘Go now a witch of my coven, full-fledged from your apprenticing.’

She hugged him, a treat reserved only for these particular mortals of his, who thought to, and did not move. ‘Can I stay here a _little_ longer?’ she pleaded, with an exaggerated whine that meant she did not expect him to acquiesce.

But he had no where to be, and a few moments more mattered little to an ancient god.

-

That was a long time ago, but Ocean still remembered it—fondly, but not without complex feelings layered over the nostalgia. He had done it eleven years ago, and so much had happened in eleven years.

It was his first Darknight alone, outside his coven and, now, many hours into the night without having taken part in any observance. What was the point when his coven was a month’s journey away?

Holy days didn’t mean anything if you observed them alone.

There was a soft chirrup, and a silky black cat landed delicately on the tavern table, from the floor. He put a paw up at the rim of Ocean’s horn, hooked claws and great strength pulling it downward. He was a large cat—well, perhaps just a tall one.

‘Critter, no,’ Ocean said, not giving in to the pull. ‘It’s not water, look.’ He unhooked the paw with one finger, and showed the contents to the cat, who sniffed before pulling back abruptly, making Ocean laugh as he gave caress to his pet’s face, making him purr loudly. ‘I told you,’ he said, and the cat climbed up to drape over his shoulders, rubbing his head on Ocean’s and purring, kneading at his shoulder.

‘You’re very lucky I’m as tall as you are, or you’d never fit up there,’ Ocean commented, and took a drink of the wine. It was better than anything he’d ever had in a tavern like this back home; even the pear-wine hadn’t been so delicate and clean a swallow as this wine-of-grapes.

He was sitting in a tavern, at a table, careful not to sit in shadow, careful not to sit too far apart, but to give his cat a little room to retreat, should the noise and the activity prove too distressing—or the patrons get too rowdy for such a delicate creature. Critter liked best to sit up on his shoulders, thankfully, and seemed to prefer that especially when it was the safest place.

One of the barmaids came over, laughing from some joke a regular had said a table away. Her smile did not fade, nor fix, when she looked at Ocean. ‘Top you up, honey?’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Ocean said, never one to turn down an offer of food or drink—it was rude—and offered his horn. She giggled at his country formality, filled it from her jug, and went along her way. Ocean sat back and continued in his thoughts, though the purring of his cat, and the feel of his silky warmth, did much to prevent any further angst from burgeoning.

Of course, that was exactly the reason Critter did things like that; he’d always come to find Ocean if Ocean went too far away into the depths of despair, and demand attention—not loudly, his voice was smaller than a kitten’s—but insistently, climbing on Ocean, purring louder than thunder, and generally making a nuisance of himself in the endearing way a cat could.

Ocean did not forget what night it was, but by the time he went back to the room he was letting, he was no longer concerned about repercussions. He had an orgasm in the dark, and whispered a small prayer; but it was love that fuelled it now, not fear. He knew Himself preferred it.


End file.
